


for the end of time.

by Vivian



Category: Naruto
Genre: (side pairing), Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, OR IS IT, Rough Sex, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara - Freeform, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: “You are my friend,” Hashirama says, pleads.Madara shoves him off. “It was just a dream, Hashirama,” he says, and his name tastes bitter on his tongue. He says it again. And again. Hashirama, Hashirama, Hashirama,Hashirama. Shouts it as they both shoot to their feet and clash, earth ripping beneath them, ground caving with each of their blows, he shouts his throat raw with the name of him. He feels—Alive.A retelling of Madara's and Hashirama's story from Madara's POV, start to finish.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas). I love you.

I

CRYSTAL LITURGY

 

 

They are the children of war. But they are children, no less. Madara plays with his four brothers, teaches the youngest how to walk and the second oldest how to throw a kunai. He remembers the birth of the last two, remembers holding them in his arms, incredulous and awed. He and Izuna take care of the younger three. Madara is lax in play and strict in practice. The first time Izuna is wounded in battle, Madara is more afraid than ever before in his life. He stays by Izuna’s bedside for weeks, dampens his forehead as the fever takes him, dresses his wounds, feeds him, bathes him, and prays that he may heal, that he may _live_. Izuna recovers. A week later, their youngest brother falls in a skirmish against the Senju. They bury him, at age seven, as a warrior. Madara sits beneath the apple tree where he’d taught him how to walk. It seems like yesterday, a world away. He cannot comprehend. The image of his bloodied face, eyes wide and glazed. It haunts him for years. It’s not the first dead face he’s seen, but the first that matters. Izuna finds him by the tree at dusk, and stays, quiet, tear traces on his cheeks. When night falls, Madara pulls him into his arms and whispers a promise into his hair. That he will protect them, always.

Autumn picks the leaves off the trees. Battle breaks out again. By winter, Izuna and Madara bury their other two brothers. The world is changed for them. They know this deep within their hearts: They will not be as before. War rages all throughout winter, snow trodden muddy, red with blood, bodies broken on the battlefields. Crows circle the sky. Many of their clan fall. Seldom they have time to recover the corpses. And Madara feels it for the first time, the hatred he has seen in his father’s eyes. He’s grown strong, stronger than most of his clan. He tells himself he is not a child anymore, stopped being a child when he buried his youngest brother. He is a warrior. He is Uchiha.

 

Izuna grows quiet, and when he speaks, it is with cold anger, ever churning inside him. Madara sees the faces of their dead brothers every time he looks at him. The images of their faces fade with each passing day. Madara starts to forget and it terrifies him. He goes to the river to clear his mind. He skips stones to focus. He thinks of a world where children live past the age of seven, of fourteen, of twenty. But his stones never reach the other shore.

 

Then he meets Hashirama.  

 

Hashirama is many things Madara has not seen before. He is strong, perhaps stronger, he is as mean as he is easy to drag down. He has dimples when he laughs and he laughs louder than anyone Madara has ever met. His skin is tan, dark eyes alight, his voice yet that of a boy, but his words those of a man. They skip stones and speak of a different future. He’s the first— The first to share Madara’s dream. And when he talks with Hashirama, Madara feels it may almost be possible. To show each other what’s inside of oneself. To be like brothers. To be more. To be _nakama_. No matter one’s clan. The days are brighter with Hashirama in them. His stones reach the shore. It’s summer and the afternoon sun blazes within blue, light glinting on Hashirama’s silly haircut, on their skin as they test their new jutsus against each other. They grow stronger together. It’s been two months and Madara still does not know Hashirama’s last name, nor Hashirama his. It’s unspoken between them. They talk a lot, before training and after, when they lean against each other’s backs and share their water. And sometimes they don’t talk and still Madara feels like… like Hashirama knows him, truly _knows_ him. Has perhaps known him before they ever met, has known him and searched for him and found him. Or perhaps that is simply what he feels for Hashirama. Hashirama laughs and Madara smacks his arm and then they are rollicking again, smearing dust onto their clothes as they wrestle on the ground. Madara wins, but he has the distinct notion that Hashirama didn’t use all his strength. Madara prods his index finger into Hashirama’s chest.

“You didn’t give your all!” Madara accuses.

But Hashirama only grins. “I’d never. Same time next week?”

Madara squints, stares at Hashirama until he cannot stay serious anymore.

“Alright,” Madara says and grins, too.

On his way back home, rushing through the leaves, Madara thinks it might last forever. That the ceasefire might grow into peace, that opposing clans might extend hands, that one day soon they will not have to be afraid to reveal their last name.

It doesn’t last. Peace, Madara realises when their fathers and brothers face each other on the river, is impossible. _Impossible_. His Sharingan awakens.

“Hashirama is stronger,” he tells his father, because he cannot fight Hashirama. Cannot do it. Not when he looks into Hashirama’s eyes, yet alight with hope while their dream is fading into darkness. Madara feels choked, cold despite the late summer. He hears the rustle of leaves and knows autumn is nigh. It was just a dream. He will not come back to the river. The next time he will see Hashirama will be on the battlefield. And Madara won’t hesitate then.

In the end, he is but two things: An older brother and Uchiha.

 

The night their father dies, Izuna comes to his room. No candle illumens the twilight, blue shadows cast on the floor, and from them, Izuna steps inside. He slides the door shut and stands unmoved. His face pale as bone, his hair black as crows. The colours blur. Madara looks at him and says nothing. Madara steps closer and grazes his fingers along the line of Izuna’s face. Izuna lowers his eyelids, lashes fan on his cheeks. He sheds no tears, has not since they buried their brothers. Madara traces the slim roundness of his chin, the curve of his armour’s bow. Blood has dried there. Madara licks his thumb and wipes the red away. They’ve both been on the battlefield with their father, but only Izuna has seen him fall. It could have been Izuna.

Something trembles within Madara. Izuna looks up, irises diffuse. Both their eyes have dimmed. The power of the Mangekyō comes at a price.

That night, he holds Izuna as he slumbers. His brother’s body presses against him tightly, nails digging into Madara’s shoulder blades. His brother’s clutch is as desperate as when they’d been children. Madara kisses the top of Izuna’s head, lays a hand firmly into the nape of his neck. And in the dark he confesses to himself: He is glad their father died, not Izuna. It is the same relief he’d felt when he’d seen their two younger brothers fall. It’s an ugly truth, that he’s always loved Izuna best of any of them. His first brother. Always, _always_. And his only, now. Madara pulls him closer. The hitch of Izuna’s breath, the wet of his lips where they press against his own skin. Madara remembers the time when it’d been only the two of them. Veiled memories of sunlight. Of sweets he shared with Izuna, of learning how to swim, of staying up late in their room, talking beneath a shared blanket. He remembers the look in Izuna’s eyes when their father gave Madara his first kunai, how Izuna had asked to touch it, awe-filled. When being a shinobi yet seemed a thing desirable, when they had to learn the fables of their forefathers by heart, and a courageous death equaled the promise of eternal fame. They were children then. They are not now. Fame means nothing. Death swallows all.  

Dawn will make him head of their clan. It will be his task to fight the Senju until the end.

No sleep comes to him. For his tenebrous eyes the sunrise is but a spill of red.

 

Cries in the air. Moaning of the wounded, stench of blood and intestines. Smoke rises where they have burned both ground and their enemies. Ash in the air. The battle has raged since daybreak. Midst it, his fallen clansmen, his cousins, shinobi Madara has known since childhood. And yet he does not feel it, the ache he knows that will come later. The only thing that matters is Hashirama. Madara’s fought him so often over the years he has lost count. They look at each other and when Hashirama leaps forward, Madara’s heart dances. They meet with the shriek of steel against steel, blades scraping, then locking. He can feel Hashirama’s breath. They are so close. Heat on his cheek, within his throat, he is about to spew his flames at Hashirama, but Hashirama wrenches their swords sideways.

“Please,” Hashirama says. It hurts like the first time. Madara curves his fingers and uses his fire. Hashirama dodges just in time, then advances. Madara draws up his blade and parries. Hashirama’s movement crashes them both to the ground. Heat builds, red like luck, red as happiness. Madara trembles as he tastes death with Hashirama so close to him.

“Please Madara,” Hashirama repeats, and it’s all there: The river. The stones skidding to the opposite shore. Their laughter, dreams of peace when the leaves were ripe with green. He _knows_ Hashirama. Knows him with all that he is, his scent, the way he moves, the way he loves, the way he _fights_.

“Shut up,” Madara tells him, lets his blade slip and then strikes with his kunai. He slits Hashirama’s cheek. Blood splatters. The wound closes before the blood splats onto Madara’s face. He tongues at it, eyes widening as Hashirama returns the strike with a blow of his fist. Madara moves his head away, but Hashirama is still above him, pinning him with his weight.

“You are my friend,” Hashirama says, pleads.

Madara shoves him off. “It was just a dream, Hashirama,” he says, and his name tastes bitter on his tongue. He says it again. And again. Hashirama, Hashirama, Hashirama, _Hashirama._ Shouts it as they both shoot to their feet and clash, earth ripping beneath them, ground caving with each of their blows, he shouts his throat raw with the name of him. He feels—

Alive.

Madara heaves fire until flames are all around them, black smoke clotting the air. They are both still for a heartbeat. Their gazes meet. He could put Hashirama under genjutsu. He doesn’t. For a moment, he feels as if nothing had changed. As if they were still—

 

A flicker of chakra spikes then plunges. Izuna.

Madara moves before he knows it.

Izuna sags. Madara catches him. Red slips from Izuna’s lips, blood wet and warm where Madara grips Izuna by his side. He can’t think.  His hands tremble. He grips Izuna tighter.

“I won’t let you die.” His promise is but a whisper.

Behind them Tobirama, his blade red. A gust of wind. Scent of cinders. Hashirama stands before him. Hashirama speaks, words drowned out by the pounding of Madara’s own pulse. Hashirama lowers his sword. He extends his hand. Madara stares at his dark eyes, stares at his hand and moves—

“Don’t,” Izuna rasps, “don’t let them deceive you.”

Madara falters. Then he slips a smoke bomb from his belt and smashes it on the ground.

He leaves his clansmen behind, to the Senju’s mercy. He cannot care for it. Izuna faints before Madara reaches the Uchiha compound. He is heavy in Madara’s arms, slack, and slick with blood. A medic rushes towards them as they arrive.

Whispers follow him as he carries Izuna into his room, the medic on his heels. “He’s come back alone,” they say, toneless, “wounded, defeated—” Madara shuts the door behind him. His blurred gaze wavers but he does not look away from Izuna, now lying limp on his futon, the medic bent over him.

Three nights pass. He burns the ceasefire agreement Hashirama has sent. He is by Izuna’s side, only half himself, paralysed, helpless, unable to do _anything_. Fever takes Izuna. He thrashes, brow sweaty, eyes unfocused, and cries for Madara.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Madara says, but Izuna does not hear him.

Dusk tears light from the skies. The world is cast in hues of black and blue. Izuna’s hand cools in Madara’s grip.

“My eyes,” Izuna whispers.

Madara leans down, cold with terror.

“Take them.”

“Brother,” Madara says. He clasps Izuna’s sleeve, pressing his forehead against Izuna’s.

“Take them, big brother” Izuna repeats, voice faint.

Madara feels Izuna’s breath on his cheek. Then he doesn’t.

 

The medic finds him by midnight. Madara is still crouched over Izuna’s body. He feels heavy, like lead, changed and unmade. He tells the medic to transplant Izuna’s eyes. The medic warns him of the risks of taking flesh from a dead body, but Madara cuts him off. It is done. It is the only thing that remains of Izuna. Of them, of childhood. Now, Madara’s vision clears. Sunrise. The world is cut in sharp contours, lined in red. Madara steps outside, into the light that bleeds from the gutted sky.  

The eternal Mangekyō is pyretic, a tide of storm. Power blazes at his fingertips.

He is beyond giving orders. There is just one thing he must do and he must do it alone.

 

The Senju meet him halfway. It is only when Madara stares at Tobirama, that he truly begins to understand. Izuna is dead. By the hands of him, brother of Hashirama. He should have known, should have seen it, should have been there— Air is short. He cannot breathe. Can only stare. Tobirama, pale, lithic, cold— and next to him, Hashirama, pleading once more for their dream, but Madara is wide awake now. War is eternal. There is no way to show what’s inside oneself. There is only blood and breath and _death._

He lashes out. The Susano’o drapes around him, clads him in power. He screams at them, for it is _absurd_ that Hashirama would mention their dream, the dream in which Madara wanted to protect his brother. Rage takes him, all of him, until it’s the only thing that is real. It propels him forward.  Hashirama grows his wood golem. They clash. The earth rives between them, trees burn to cinders in Madara’s flames, canyons pulverise under Hashirama’s onrush. And still Hashirama begs, as if Madara could forgive, as if he were able to.

They battle all day. The blue hour shades a different landscape than before. They end as perhaps they must: with Madara on his back, and Hashirama victorious. Yet for all his strength, Hashirama’s voice is soft when he asks, “Can’t we skip stones like we used to?”

“No,” Madara says.

He has no-one left to protect. And Hashirama understands that, too. Crunch of steps. Tobirama comes forward and raises his sword, the same sword that took Izuna’s life. It is the end.

“ _No-one touches him_ ,” Hashirama snarls. Madara has never heard him like this. He watches how Tobirama’s eyes widen, how he steps back in shock, perhaps fear.

Hashirama leans over him.

“It’d be an honour to die at your hand,” Madara murmurs. Hashirama’s gaze lingers. Gentle now.

“Is there no other way?”

There is not. He tells him, tells him, too, that he cannot trust them, not after Izuna. And yet Hashirama pleads, asks what he must do to gain back his trust.

Madara gives his answer. “Either kill yourself or your brother.”

He knows Hashirama will not do it, would not harm Tobirama for the world. Tobirama who now shouts, who would have Madara dead, too, and all his clan.  _ Tobirama.  _ The name like a curse on his tongue. If not for exhaustion, Madara would rise and call upon his vengeance, would tear Tobirama limb from limb, would _ unmake _ him. 

Hashirama quiets all. He stands, and the last lights of day douse him in earthtone, tender, unmovable. 

“Thank you,” Hashirama tells him. 

What follows blurs all sight. Hashirama takes his knife. He forces a promise from his clansmen, from Tobirama, too, not to harm the Uchiha. He raises the blade. Sunset caught in steel. Madara sees death approaching. Hashirama looks at him and there is peace, soft on his features. Hashirama is content, he is  _ true _ — 

Madara moves. He clasps Hashirama’s wrist. 

“You’ve shown me what is inside of you,” he murmurs. 

Hashirama stills. Then smiles. And when Hashirama crouches down to help him up, Madara knows. If he is to live, it cannot be in a world without him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two mean so much to me. Please let me know what you think!  
> titles taken from Messiaen's _Quatuor pour la fin du temps_.
> 
> also check out my Madara & Hashirama [paintings](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/madara).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my [love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) who is the kindest, wisest, and brightens all by her presence.

II

ABYSS OF BIRDS

  
  


The war ends. The Senju and Uchiha sign a treaty and count their losses. They wear white and burn their dead. Smoke shrouds the sky. Silence spreads, for every word uttered may give rise to conflict, may reveal that some wounds have not yet mended. They will hope for a better future for those of their kin that are yet young, for a generation that may know war only as memory of terrors past. 

They build houses in the valley, sheltered by leaf and rock. Just like he and Hashirama had dreamed, so long ago. A sanctuary, an almost-paradise. Except Izuna’s corpse has long been burned and his ashes scattered, and he who killed him sits next to Hashirama in council, and is revered by all Senju. Tobirama. Madara thinks of him during the dead hours, just before dawn, when he lies in bed and all is quiet where Izuna’s breath should be. It robs him of sleep until he turns and smothers what rage seethes within him, burns him, chokes him—and yet is better than the void of it. Tobirama’s presence is ice where Hashirama’s is forest and life. Madara rarely sees Tobirama walk the village, he is ever shut away in his office, in his laboratories. He is ramrod straight in posture but it takes only a too casual word from Hashirama to break his composure. Then he shouts at his elder brother, and he will not be denied, not by Hashirama, not by the clans cumulating in the village. Certainly not by the Uchiha. Madara has to go the other way when he witnesses it.  _ Has  _ to. If he doesn’t, he would kill him. He  _ wants _ to. But this is Hashirama’s dream. It is strange to be with Hashirama after so many years of war between them. Yet, whenever Madara wanders the streets, Hashirama comes to him from one corner or another, as if, inevitably, their paths are drawn towards each other. The world quiets around them, softens where Madara knows edges. Nothing looks the same with Hashirama by his side. 

Spring opens petals, breezes rush through the newly greened leaves, and Madara cannot look away from him. They are walking side by side up the sandy rocks that lead to the stonewall framing the East of the village. Dust coats their toes. Hashirama’s skin gleams in the sunlight. He smiles at Madara and it is hard to remember that Hashirama has killed as many as Madara has, that he is not just warmth. They reach the top. The memory of how they first came here lingers. Hashirama grips him by the biceps, and Madara looks up at him, quiet for a moment. Touch between them is both familiar and new. Madara grazes his fingers against Hashirama’s elbow. Hashirama’s smile broadens. Madara’s chest constricts. He turns and looks over the village spread out before them, houses small as a child’s toys from up so high. A place for children to grow up peacefully. It is almost too good to be true. Madara closes his eyes. How would Izuna fare here? Would he lay down his sword? No. Izuna would demand to keep training, would brood and only smile when feeling unobserved, would, perhaps, seek Madara out at night, sleep next to him and allow Madara to hold him, would steal the blanket and be gruff in the morning. 

But Izuna is dead. 

Madara opens his eyes, fingers clenched into fists, nails piercing the skin of his palms. 

“Madara,” Hashirama says softly. 

Madara breathes out, then slowly turns towards Hashirama. Understanding glimmers in his dark eyes, but there are no words that could sooth what is unsoothable. Hashirama knows this, too. 

“It’s alright,” Madara says. 

“Come,” Hashirama says. He places his hand on Madara’s shoulder, drawing him in and along as he steps forward. “I heard a place opened up right at the mountain foot, selling excellent sake.”

“It’s afternoon,” Madara says.

Hashirama laughs. “We’ve all been exhausting ourselves lately. Surely it is deemed acceptable to relax every now and then.”

“You’re just looking for a reason to gamble,” Madara accuses, brows pinched together. Hashirama grins at him. “All the more reason I need a good friend to temper me lest I squander all my money.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Oh come on!” Hashirama laughs, and drags him downhill. Madara protests but makes no attempt to free himself. 

The place is a small den. The wood of its walls smells freshly waxed. The rooms are spare but for low tables, cushions and a single inked landscape on the wall. The afternoon sun shines through the glassless frames. Madara hopes no-one might see the two heads of the most powerful clans drinking at so misguided a time. Hashirama orders a bottle of sake and two plates of inarizushi. Madara accepts it as the bribe it is, and yet feels warmth spreading through him at the thought that Hashirama would remember. Hashirama gobbles up his share while Madara takes his time to savour. He saves Hashirama his last piece. They drink, and Hashirama’s boisterous laughter echoes. He claps Madara on the back after having delivered a particularly bad joke and Madara stifles his cackle with the back of his hand. 

The sun sets, and as night falls, the den starts to fill with more people. Craftsmen, labourers that wipe sweat from their brows and dust from their kimonos. Hashirama stumbles over to a group of artisans and asks to join their gambling. They accept him readily. Madara comes to sit next to him and keeps an eye on the other players. Hashirama looks away and Madara flashes his sharingan as warning towards any slip of hand. The artisans swallow, Madara smiles. 

Three bottles of sake and half of Hashirama’s valuables later, they leave the den. Arms slung over each other’s shoulders, they stagger into the night.

“They cheated!” Hashirama proclaims loudly, “I cannot have that much bad luck now, can I, Madara?”

“You can,” Madara says, “you had.” Hashirama bumps his head against Madara’s in protest. They tumble to the side, street blurring before their eyes. 

“Where the hell are we going?” Madara asks.

“I thought you were leading the way!” 

“You’re waking everyone up.”

“ _ You _ are waking everyone up.”

it’s“Hashirama!”

They erupt into a fit of laughter. Someone opens their window and shouts at them to be quiet. Hashirama is about to shout back, but Madara shoves his hand over his mouth. 

“You’re a child,” Madara murmurs into his ear, grinning.

Sound of water. The fountain on the market square.

“Am I?” Hashirama’s eyes glint mischievously. 

“What are you—”

Before he can finish his sentence, Hashirama hoists him over his shoulder. Then Hashirama runs. Water splashes all around them, sloshing into Madara’s mouth and nose. Hashirama bellows laughter by his ear. 

“You are _ dead _ ,” Madara snarls. He snorts and spits water, and pushes Hashirama under. Hashirama’s arms wrap around his waist, then Madara’s swept off his feet and they’re both under. They come up coughing and laughing. Madara’s vision is blurred, but Hashirama’s face is sharp, even now. Gaze intent on Madara. Hashirama reaches out and strokes a strand of hair behind Madara’s ear. 

“Your hair’s all down,” Hashirama mumbles.

“Shut up.”

His hand on Hashirama’s chest. Hashirama blinks, drops caught in his lashes. His body is warm in the cold water. Hashirama moves forward and presses Madara against the fountain edge. They’re close. 

“Madara…” 

Madara holds his breath, can’t speak. 

Hashirama lets go. 

“I’m sorry,” Hashirama says, backing away, “I should go home.”

Madara swallows and shivers in the cold. 

“Of course,” he says.

They heave themselves out of the fountain. Hashirama stutters a good-bye. 

They go their separate ways.

That night, Madara tosses and turns as he denies himself the pleasure of his hand. 

 

There is always touch between them, warm as spring blooms into summer. They do not speak of what happened in the fountain. They wander up the stonewall day by day, and some nights too, gazing upon the village.

One day Hashirama asks, “Do you remember how we first sat here when we were brats?”

“Of course,” Madara answers. It seems a lifetime ago. He adds, quieter, “It’s often been said that wherever there is a will, there is a way, and yet I…”

“That dream is now becoming reality,” Hashirama says. He smiles and tells him of an allegiance with the land of fire. Of naming a leader to represent the village. Of naming Madara hokage.

“Me?” Madara asks. Hashirama moves closer, places his hand on Madara’s arm. Madara thinks of how they had schemed as children, how they had made their grand plans. He thinks of Izuna. Of Tobirama and his blade. He swallows and turns away. 

“I know you have no blood siblings,” Hashirama murmurs, “but I want you to see all the villagers as your family.” He nudges Madara’s arm. “I want you to protect them with all your might.”

A breeze scatters leaves from the trees. Madara catches one between thumb and index finger. A hole is dug through its middle. Hashirama tells him of the clans that are planning to join the village, among them the Sarutobi and Shimura. True peace might be possible, such strength would surely shield them from attacks. 

“It is time we gave the village a name, don’t you think?” Hashirama says, leaning in. The sun glints warmly on his hair, casting it in hues of brown and red. “Do you have any thoughts on that?”

Madara holds up the leaf. 

“How about… the village hidden in the leaf?”

Hashirama hangs his head. “So simplistic. No ingenuity. You call it exactly how you see it.” 

“How is that different from hokage?” Madara shouts back. “And I see you’re still getting depressed easily!” 

Hashirama goes on about the hokage, spewing how he wants to have Madara’s likeness carved into the stonewall beneath their feet. A barb follows another, and by the end of it, they are both cackling. “There you are!” A voice from behind them. 

Madara’s smile falls. Hashirama turns around.

“What are you dawdling here? The lords of the land of fire have arrived.”

“Tobirama.”

They stare at each other. No repentance in Tobirama’s eyes, only barely hidden hostility. The echo of his own laughter from before knives Madara’s side, taste like betrayal. Izuna is dead and here he idles with Hashirama, letting Tobirama live. 

 

Later that day, Madara sneaks into the Senju residence. An inkling impels him onwards. He rolls the stem of the leaf between his fingers. He climbs up the roof of the residence, quiet as shadow, like his father taught him. He slips between two windows on the side averted from the cobble street. Tobirama is not infusing chakra, Madara can feel it. They will not know him present. Their voices echo. 

“Didn’t you hear the rumours?” Tobirama asks his brother.

Madara clenches his hand around the leaf.

“Even the Uchiha clan knows that Madara could not protect his brethren. It is you, elder brother, who is the driving force for this village.”

Madara bites his lip until he tastes blood. How dare Tobirama speak this way, when it was him, him who— Madara opens his palm. The leaf has split in two. It slips from his hand.

He moves without thought. He cannot stay. Nausea rises and almost fells him as he climbs down. He stumbles through the streets. He cannot go back to the Uchiha compound, not with Tobirama’s words in his ear, with the  _ truth _ of them— He left his clansmen to be slaughtered when he tried to save Izuna. He failed. He could not defeat Hashirama, could not even let Hashirama die. 

He is no leader. He was a big brother once. What is he now? 

 

Autumn strips the trees. Hashirama is appointed first hokage. His countenance is carved into the rock, leaving Hashirama busy fulfilling his duties. They meet only when organisation requires it of them as leaders of their clans. 

It is a brief autumn, no warmth lingers, already the breath of winter chills the air at sundown. 

Word is sent from the Uzumaki clan and talk of an allegiance spreads among the people. War has stirred up again in the North, and it drives many into the secure walls of their village, and more yet to ally with the Leaf’s strength if only by contract. 

The strongest contract, of course, is marriage. Madara should have known the moment the Uzumaki paraded their princess through the gates. Vigorous in blood and will, they call her, that red haired wench. Mito. An aura upon her, of storm mastered in the clench of her fist. She strides slow, steps measured as she ascends the stairs to the hokage’s office. She greets all attendants in the proper manner, as if her barbarism might be eclipsed by practised words. She only smiles when she sets eyes on Hashirama. Hashirama smiles back. 

Madara’s hands tremble at his sides. He’s standing at the back of the room, watching. Hashirama greets her with poise, and yet in the corner of his mouth there is a playfulness Madara has not seen before. He digs his nails into his palms. Suddenly Tobirama catches his eye. Madara stares and swallows. Tobirama’s gaze darkens knowingly. 

Madara leaves without another word. They might not even notice he has gone.

He cannot but think of it. The way they had looked at each other. How she is so much smaller than Hashirama, dwarfed by his size, how they would _ fit _ together— 

Madara reaches his house. He can’t breathe, he feels like throwing up. He presses a hand over his mouth as he heaves, swallowing back the gall that rises in his throat. Sweat pricks at his brow, yet he feels cold.

He does not see Hashirama the next week. The princess’s stay is scheduled for ten days. Sleep evades him, and when he glances in the mirror, his skin looks paler than before, his eyes bloodshot. The world is still at war outside the village. Inside, the Uchiha have turned away from him. The morning of the seventh day promises rain. He has to talk to Hashirama. Of what, he is uncertain. 

 

Rain drizzles onto the cobblestone road that leads through the gardens up to the Senju residence. Dusk streaks the sky red and gold where the horizon is not darkened by clouds. The air is warmer than the previous nights. Madara rounds the bushes that drape over the corner in the road. 

He stills. 

Mito stands on the veranda, her hair wet with rain, glimmering in the lampions. At her knee, Hashirama. Her hand in his. She looks softer than before.

“Will you have me?” Hashirama murmurs and looks up at her. 

She only grazes her knuckles over his cheek. 

Hashirama smiles, wide and warm, eyes crinkling. 

Madara stumbles backwards. 

He turns around and once more stills. Tobirama stares at him. Hard breath, a shiver down Madara’s spine. Laughter bubbles up in his throat. 

“What are you doing here?” Tobirama asks, voice deep. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Were you spying on my brother?”

Madara’s lips tremble. “You best step aside. I have no patience left today.” 

Tobirama’s eyes narrow. “What are you planning to do?” 

It is enough. Madara dashes forward and rams his fist into Tobirama’s stomach. Tobirama doubles over, coughing. Madara reaches for his kunai. Tobirama sees it. 

Madara turns around. 

 

Madara slides open the door and dismisses all his personnel. When he’s alone he looks at his desk in silence. Then he swipes it clean, crashing vases to the floor, scattering papers. He breaks what little furniture is in the room. It takes all his control not to burn the house to cinders. He wants to. Perhaps the flames would scorch what remains of feeling. He sinks down in the ruins of the room. 

He’s hollowed. His eyes are wide but unseeing. He crouches, hands in his hair, tearing. He sobs quietly. 

Midnight approaches. He has not moved. Only when a soft voice calls out to him, does he stand. Hashirama. It’s Hashirama. He does not want to see him. Cannot see him. He wants to see him. More than anything he wants to see him. 

He slides the door open, shielding with his body the room from Hashirama’s view.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Tobirama says you attacked him this evening?” Hashirama sounds worried. “What happened? I know how Tobirama can be—”

“It was nothing,” Madara says. “I lost my temper.” 

“What did he do? Madara, please tell me.” 

Hashirama takes a step closer but Madara does not move away. Hashirama’s gaze slides over Madara’s cheeks. He reaches out. Madara catches his wrist.

“Please go,” he says.

“I don’t want to leave like this,” Hashirama murmurs. 

He thinks of how Hashirama had looked at Mito. How he had  _ asked _ her.

“Please,” Madara says and lets go of Hashirama’s wrist.

Hashirama reaches behind Madara and slides the door fully open. He stares at the destruction of the room, then at Madara. 

“What happened here?”

“I lost...my temper,” Madara repeats through his teeth. 

“You know I can tell when you are lying to me,” Hashirama says softly. Madara hits him square in the jaw. Hashirama’s head snaps to the side, hair sliding over his face. When he looks up again, his mouth is set into a grim line. He takes Madara by his shoulders, marches him inside and against the wall.

“I’m trying to help you,” Hashirama pleads.

“Do you think me so weak?” Madara snarls. 

“Of course not, that’s not what I—”

“Leave.”

“Madara!”

Hashirama knocks him back against the wall, then presses his forehead against Madara’s. He can feel Hashirama’s breath. His heartbeat. Madara closes his eyes. 

“Why do you pretend to care now?” Madara asks sharply and opens his eyes again. “You have been well enough occupied with that whore the Uzumaki sent. Does she bore you already? Have you eaten the fruit to saturation that now you come knocking on my door?”

“Don’t speak of her like that,” Hashirama says, calm. Dangerous. 

Madara sneers. 

“What?” Madara gloats. “Have I hit a nerve?”

Hashirama steps back. “I tried to help you, but it seems you do not wish my help.” 

“That is correct.”

“I will see you…at the ceremony,” Hashirama says. 

Madara stares after him when he leaves. 

 

The dead hours of night draw the sky into blackness. Silence reigns the woods nearby. All lanterns extinguished. 

Madara slips into the room through an open window. No sound follows his footstep. He perches on the windowsill, gloved fingers running over the heft of his kunai.

“So you told him,” he says.

Tobirama startles from his desk where he’s reading a scroll. 

“What,” he snaps and is on his feet the next second.

“You went running to big brother, eh?”

Tobirama grits his teeth. His fingers wrap around a letter opener.

“What are you doing here?”

Madara slides from the window sill. He does not know the answer to it. He knows only what he  _ wants _ to do. But what he will do—

Tobirama is before him. Pale red eyes and paler face. Hiemal.

“What do you want?” Tobirama asks, voice quiet. His eyes measuring, every muscle taut. He is so unlike Hashirama it is laughable. He is, perhaps, all that Hashirama is not, because he must be. Cruel where Hashirama is soft. Even Madara can see the necessity. It does not lessen his hatred. Heat surges through his veins. Power pools in his fingertips. The Mangekyō sharpens his irises. Tobirama moves back, eyes averted. 

“Hush now, Tobirama,” Madara says as Tobirama opens his mouth. He steps closer until he has Tobirama cornered against the desk. It would be easy for Tobirama to flee. It would be wise. 

“You do not frighten me,” Tobirama growls.

Madara grips his chin and tilts Tobirama’s head. 

“Look me in the eye and say that again.”

Tobirama wrenches Madara’s hand away. “Are you here to kill me? I am not surprised. You were always a string about to snap,  _ Uchiha _ .” Tobirama spits the name out like a curse.

“Did you feel powerful,” Madara hisses, “when you killed my brother?”

Their eyes meet.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fandom seems vaguely abandoned and I feel a bit like shouting into the void, so I'd love if you guys told me what you think of this story so far ♡ 
> 
> also check out my Naruto [paintings](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/naruto).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
>  
> 
> _“Did you feel powerful,” Madara hisses, “when you killed my brother?”_  
>  Their eyes meet.  
> “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes as always to my [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) who is simply the sweetest.  
> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments. ;-; Honestly, they mean so much to me!

 

They’re on the floor the next moment. Kunai and letter opener discarded. It’s fists and kicks that follow, fingers dug into cloth, ripping, bone scraping bone. A kick against the desk sends the candle flying, its flame smothered as it falls to the floor. Darkness. They tear at each other. Then there are Tobirama’s lips, cold and hard. Madara opens his mouth. Tobirama’s on top of him. It would take little to throw him off, but Madara doesn’t. He lets his wrist be pinned to the floor instead.

“Wretched creature,” Tobirama grits before he kisses him again.

It is this, or a fight to the death. They both know it. It is only the name unspoken between them, that keeps them from it.

“Get on with it,” Madara snarls, bucking his hips upward. He can feel Tobirama’s erection against his thigh. Tobirama grips his tunic and shoves it aside, then he flips Madara onto his stomach. His trousers are pulled down roughly. Weight on top of him. He hears Tobirama spit into his hand. Tobirama mounts him, thrusting once and hard. A grunt escapes Madara as pain pierces through him. He reaches down beneath himself. Fingers dig into the nape of his neck. Breath washes over his ear. Tobirama pulls out and pushes back in. The stretch hurts. Blood starts easing the way. Slap of flesh in the dark. Tobirama takes him harder. Madara’s eyes flutter shut. Behind his eyelids, he sees _his_ face as he was in the fountain, drops like pearls in his hair. Madara bites his lip to stifle a moan. Tobirama seizes Madara’s hair in his fist, pulls his head to the side. One look, even in the dark, tells Madara that he knows. Tobirama spits into his face. Madara doesn’t move. The splitle slicks his cheek.

“You are scum. You—” Tobirama groans and thrusts hard. Madara covers his face with his free hand. Tobirama pulls it away. “No, I won’t let you imagine—”

Madara moves back against Tobirama. Press of lips on lips. A tongue slides into his mouth and Tobirama’s thumb smears the spit down his cheek.

It’s harsh and slow. No word spoken. Madara pushes him off. A grunt escapes Tobirama as Madara straddles his thighs, and spears himself with Tobirama’s cock. Tight grip on his hips. Bruises will taint his skin on the morrow. He hunches, hair cascading over his shoulders. His fingers wrap around Tobirama’s neck, and he feels Tobirama harden even more inside him. Their rhythm quickens. Sweat slicks what little of their flesh is exposed. Madara tightens his grip on Tobirama’s throat. He is so close. He could come, or kill him. Tears blur his vision. He thinks of Izuna. Of Hashirama.

Tobirama grabs Madara’s cock with one hand and pushes him down onto his own with the other. Sparks ignite before Madara’s eyes. He comes, choking down a sob. He sinks against Tobirama’s shoulder, but Tobirama does not relent. An arm wraps around his waist. His back hits the floor. Tobirama uses his body. Madara turns his head away when he feels hot wetness slick his insides. Tobirama pulls out. Semen dribbles down Madara’s thigh, stench of it in the air. A shiver runs down his spine.

Neither of them speaks.

With cold fingers Madara plucks from the floor the remains of his robe. Slick smears onto cloth as he dresses. He does not look at Tobirama. He leaves.

Outside the horizons grey. Empty streets. Madara treads into shadow, and within them, hurries. The Uchiha district lies quiet. Cold smoke wafts from the firesides. He reaches his house. He goes to the washroom and laves Tobirama’s scent from his skin.

Dawn comes with rain. He sits naked on the floor. He waits for the sunrise. No warmth as the sky pales. Rain patters against the window. Bruises tarnish his skin where Tobirama has touched him, where he has _taken_. The sound of his voice near Madara’s ear. The ache of him inside. He goes back to the wash basin. The water has cooled. He scrubs at his skin, chafing it red.

Morning draws into noon. He does not eat nor sleep. He dresses at last when the skies darken.

The Naka Shrine is empty but alight with candles. Madara takes one of them, then counts the tatami mats until he reaches the seventh from the far right. It hides the entrance to the meeting room, unknown to all but the Uchiha. It has long since remained unused. Few heed his words these days. Madara descends. His shadow twists against the walls as he moves, as if it were its own creature. The walls are of rock. The air is damp. Before him, the tablet. It has been passed down among the leaders of the Uchiha clan for generations. An heirloom. A _secret_. And no other than himself can attempt to read it. No other has the prerequisites: The eternal Mangekyō. Yet, even for him, it takes concentration of hours amassed in the twilight. He sets the candle down and kneels. What he can decipher is no coherent thing but a feeling. Dreams of the far future.

 

When he gets back, Hashirama sits waiting on his front doorstep. The lampion above douses him in light, gilding his hair. Night falls around them, blackening the blue hour. Madara stills. Hashirama looks up. His brows are pinched, mouth downturned. He’s hunched. Now he stands. Hashirama’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak. He fidgets with a thread of his kimono. 

“Madara,” he says softly.

Madara swallows. It starts to drizzle again. Rain streaks Hashirama’s hair, catching in his eyelashes. Hashirama blinks it away. Madara comes closer. Madara steps into the light of the lampion. He cannot breathe, cannot think. Silence within him seals his lips, draws inward what he cannot voice. That in the rain, Hashirama looks beautiful. That it hurts the same way it had on the battlefields. That he is but two steps from touch. 

“Madara,” Hashirama says again.

The lampion extinguishes above them. Madara takes a step. Then another. In the dark, his knuckles graze Hashirama’s. Hashirama follows him inside. Hashirama slides the veranda door open. They sit and glance at the pond outside. Tenebrous shapes. The world is different without daylight. They do not speak. Their knees brush. It’s only them until dawn. 

 

Madara wakes on his futon. Hashirama is snoring next to him. He’s sprawled half over the edge of the bed, arm and leg dangling out, hair spread across the pillow. Madara tugs the sheet between arm and chest and pulls it with him as he turns. The snoring increases in volume. Madara kicks at Hashirama’s leg. A low grumble. Then Hashirama’s eyes open slowly, blinking at the light. 

“You were snoring,” Madara says.

Hashirama drags a hand over his face, carding his hair back. He grins. 

“Was I now?” 

Madara slaps his shoulder. Hashirama laughs and rolls onto his elbows. 

“And who stole my sheet?”

“This is  _ my  _ sheet.”

The next second, Hashirama is above him. Hair cascades left and right, veiling the afternoon sun. 

“You’re a bad host.”

“You invited yourself.”

Hashirama’s grin widens.

“What—” Fingers jam into his side and Madara squeals. His face turns red. “Don’t you dare—” 

But Hashirama is already going in for the kill. Madara writhes and laughs, pushing against Hashirama and Hashirama is laughing, too. Hair swipes across Madara’s face, catching at his lip, and he is laughing harder, half spitting, half choking on Hashirama’s hair. He slaps at him, tries to wriggle free, but Hashirama keeps him down with his weight.

“Let go you oaf, you—” his own laughter drowns the rest of his sentence. He lands a kick and Hashirama loses his balance for a moment. Madara turns them over, straddling Hashirama’s hips. An arm snakes around his waist, then Hashirama stands. The veranda door is still open.

“No! Not again!” Madara shouts as he sees Hashirama look at the pond, but Hashirama is already moving. A few staggered steps and the momentum throws them over into the water. It splashes, ice cold despite the warm afternoon. Taste of algae floods Madara’s mouth. He comes up again, wide awake and spitting water. Hashirama is still laughing. The pond’s ground is part sandy, part slick with plant. Madara grabs a fistful and throws it at Hashirama’s face. It smacks him right on the cheek. Then Madara is thrown backward, spine meeting with the shallow ground. A hand smears algae over his mouth. It gets worse when he guffaws as he looks at Hashirama’s face. He reaches up and wipes the mud from Hashirama’s cheek. 

“You look exactly as idiotic as you are,” Madara says.

Hashirama grins. “There’s algae all over your lips.” 

“And whose fault is that.”

Hashirama thumbs at Madara’s mouth. Madara bites his finger. Something flashes in Hashirama’s eyes. 

“Lord Hokage…”

They both turn their heads.

A shinobi of the Senju stands a few feet away, scroll in hand. 

“There are...er…there are some documents you should see.” The shinobi reigns what confusion clouds his face. “You too, lord Madara.” 

“Is it urgent?” Hashirama asks, still crouched above Madara.

“Very.”

Hashirama nods. He gets back on his feet, offering a hand. Madara takes it.

“Give us...a moment,” Hashirama adds, looking at their soaked clothes.

“Yes sir.”

They go back inside. Madara wipes his mouth, then gets them both dry clothes. Hashirama dresses in one of Madara’s kimonos, the fit slightly too tight and short. To see Hashirama like this…

They wring out their hair. Hashirama pulls his into a bun.

“Thank you,” Hashirama says.

Madara nods, peeling his own soaked clothes off. Bruises on his hips. He turns around before Hashirama can see. He dresses quickly. They go back outside. 

The way to the Hokage’s office is but a blur. Hashirama is ahead of him. They rush through leaf and street, swift as wind. The bruises throb and Tobirama’s touch comes back to him. 

They enter the office. One of Hashirama’s assistants steps forward, her lips tight.

“There’s been an incident,” she says. 

Behind them the door opens. Mito steps in. Madara clenches his fists. Mito’s face is stern and composed. She says, “My clan was attacked.” 

“What?” Hashirama snaps.

“It’s being handled. The problem is the breach of contract by those who attacked,” Mito says.

The shinobi that accompanied him and Hashirama hands Hashirama the scroll. 

“We mustn’t lean on lenience. It may serve as encouragement for other such attempts,” Mito continues.

“You mean retaliation,” Hashirama says.

Tobirama enters. “A consequence, as well as a preemptive strike to thwart imitators,” Tobirama says. A shiver runs down Madara’s spine.

“War,” Hashirama murmurs.

“ _ Intervention _ .” Tobirama takes the scroll from Hashirama’s hands. “This was bound to happen, elder brother. If we do not act immediately, true chaos might ensue. We must make an example out of them.”

Hashirama looks up from the scroll. His gaze finds Madara’s. Madara says nothing. Tobirama is right. Hashirama nods. “Alright.”

They hunt down the shinobi responsible for the attack. Hashirama leads the search party despite Tobirama’s advice. Madara is by his side. It takes five days to find the attackers. The capture resolves smoothly. They bring the enemy shinobi to the Leaf by the evening of the fifth day. The sun bleeds across the horizon and red light falls into the dungeon. The two shinobi are shackled to the wall. They are trained against genjutsu. To break them would require time that they do not have. Or force that Madara well possesses, yet is reluctant to use, force that would inflict greater suffering than any blade might. It must be done differently.

Tobirama stands in front of them, hands clasped at his back. 

“We can do this the easy way,” Tobirama says coldly, “or the hard.”

Hashirama and Madara stand by the door, watching. Hashirama’s shoulders are tense, gaze intent on the prisoners. 

“Who hired you?” Tobirama asks. The shinobi remain quiet. “I will ask you one more time,” Tobirama says while two of the Sarutobi clan prepare a rack. 

No answer.

“Him first,” Tobirama says and nods towards the left prisoner. He’s a boy of perhaps fourteen. He struggles as he’s released from the wall. They drag him to the rack. His screams echo within the rock-hewn walls as he’s fastened upon it. 

“Tilt it back,” Tobirama says.

One of the Sarutobi places a cloth over the boy’s mouth and the other prepares a water basin.

“Begin.”

They pour the water over the boy’s face. His legs begin to thrash, his arms strain against the leather that binds him. He chokes. 

“Stop.” Tobirama steps beside him and pulls the cloth from the boy’s mouth. “Who hired you?” 

The boy only stares. Tobirama places the cloth back over his mouth. They pour the water again. 

“He’s just a child,” Hashirama whispers. “Tobirama stop this.”

“He’s a soldier. I will treat him as such.” Tobirama’s eyes are hard. “Would you rather it happened again?” 

Hashirama does not answer. Madara places his hand on Hashirama’s shoulder. 

 

The boy does not speak. He dies by dawn. 

The other prisoner tells them afterwards. They sent out two teams to eliminate the lord who ordered the attack. 

“A move against the Uzumaki is a move against the Leaf. It cannot be tolerated,” are Tobirama’s words. He speaks them plainly, as he always speaks. 

The teams return successfully. Hashirama goes to Madara afterwards. 

Winds howl in the streets, rattling the bare trees. There’s no rain, but lightning cracks the sky. The air is thick and heavy. Together they walk through the streets, listening to the wind. Their way leads up the stonewall. The village’s houses shrink with every step. It’s afternoon but dark as dusk. They sit down upon the edge, hair swept into their faces. Hashirama stares at his hands and shakes his head.

“Must there always be strife?” Hashirama whispers. The wind almost tears the words from his mouth. “Is peace impossible?”

Madara thinks of the stone tablet. Thinks of what secrets yet lie hidden within it. 

“Perhaps there is another way,” he murmurs, but it’s too quiet for Hashirama to hear.

Madara moves closer. Hashirama looks up. His eyes so dark. So different to how he had looked at Mito. Madara reaches out, knuckles grazing Hashirama’s cheek. Hashirama catches his hand in his own and turns his face into it. Madara swallows. He wants to pull Hashirama closer. He doesn’t.

Hashirama lets go. “Forgive me, old friend.” 

“Let us go back,” Madara says. Thunder rumbles, then cracks. “The storm is about to begin.”

 

They say their goodbyes at the foot of the mountain. Madara knows that Mito’s stay has been extended. Hashirama wants to get back to her. He does not say it, but it is there in the glint of his eye, the arch of his spine, the spring in his step as he turns away. Madara stares after him. He can’t breathe. Lightning strikes. His heartbeat drowns out the thunder. Rain shatters onto the ground. No-one on the streets. Wind tears at Madara, whipping the rain against him. He’s shaking from the cold. He moves.

The laboratories grace the outskirts of the Senju district. They are open to all, yet the halls are dark and empty. Madara descends the stairs to the vaults, leaving wet footprints. A sliver of orange underneath the door of the farthest room. The morgue. Madara approaches and slides the door open. 

Tobirama stares at him. No surprise in his red eyes. He must’ve been infusing chakra. Two bodies on the metal slabs in front of him. Scribble of kanji on the dead flesh. Incantations. Jutsu.

“Now, what bestiae do you devise here?” Madara asks. He rounds the slabs, fingertip sliding along the edge. 

“None of your business,” Tobirama growls. There’s a wary look in his eyes. And something else too. Something Madara wants to claw his way inside. Madara closes the distance between them. Tobirama looks down to him, eyes shadowed. Madara thinks of Hashirama. How he had turned into his touch. How he had let go. Lightning illumens the room. Thunder cracks when it falls back into twilight. Tobirama kisses him. Madara fists his hands into Tobirama’s hair and pulls him closer. A step, another and Tobirama presses him against one of the slabs. Madara braces himself on it. A hand in the hollow of his knee. Tobirama lifts him onto the slab. Madara lies back, spine curving, corpse athwart underneath him. Rapture in cold flesh. Tobirama moves between his thighs. Madara reaches to the side, dabs into the paint of the incantations, then smears the black of it over Tobirama’s mouth, chin, neck. Harsh breath between them. Lightning reflects in Tobirama’s eyes, dousing him in ghostly white. The darkness that follows is almost material. 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad if there are still people in this fandom/on this ship. ♡ What do you guys think of this chapter and the character dynamics? What are your thoughts on Tobirama? 
> 
> (check out my Naruto [paintings](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/naruto).)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always beta'd by my [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) who honestly is the Hashirama to my Madara irl (except we're the healthy and fluffy version).  
> Y'all, thank you for your comments on the last chapter. I'm sorry this one took so long, uni and life got in the way.

No sunrise. Grey dawn, darker than day. Whirlwinds and rain, no sound but the deluge. The ground is swamped, trees bend and boughs break. Madara hurries back to the Uchiha compound. He’s drenched to his skin, hair a tangle of black knots streaming behind him as he runs. But even the rain does not reach where he is still wet from Tobirama’s slick release. He thinks of Hashirama, thinks of the boy who died, younger than Izuna had been. Madara could have used his genjutsu, but he would have broken the child just the same. And for what. For the Uzumaki clan and for _Mito_. For their village. He reaches the training grounds, a fenced field at the outskirts of the compound. He stops and stares. Rain smudges all shapes. It does not matter. Here they train the young ones to become shinobi. Here they command them to fight and to die. Perhaps nothing has changed after all. Perhaps they lie to themselves and everyone around them, perhaps they just _pretend_.

The streets are deserted. He might just as well have been the only Uchiha left alive. Sometimes he thinks that he is. His clansmen care little for their name, and less for those slain for peace. They’re desperate to forget and do not visit the graves of the fallen, do not pray for them, do not speak of them. Madara cowers down, knees sinking into mud, he cannot breathe. He claws a hand to his chest, bunching the cotton of his robe. Hair slides to his face, wet and heavy. Izuna. Izuna. Inzuna. Sudden onslaught of nausea. He chokes down bile, eyes pressed shut. He braces himself against the fence. Tobirama’s hands on him. Tobirama’s spent inside him. Madara retches. Nothing but bile; his stomach is empty. He shivers and wipes his mouth. He drags himself up slowly. The cold of the rain numbs his skin. He starts walking and does not stop until he stands before the Naka Shrine. Darkened, no candles alight. Madara walks through its gate, ascends the stairs, and then seeks out the hidden room.

Later, he does not remember how long he spent there, and has no recollection of leaving. He only knows the rain has stopped and that red streaks the sky. It’s an hour until nightfall. His limbs ache from the cold, but he does not hurry home. He walks in a daze, and before his eyelids he sees the phantoms of a world to come. A young woman turns away as he passes her by, a group of shinobi starts mumbling in a nearby tavern, spilling their sake and staring. He keeps walking. He knows that many yet remember how he had fled the battlefield, abandoning his kin, when he had tried to save Izuna. They call him warmonger still, ungrateful of the Senju’s mercy.

Messages wait for Madara as he returns home. He has missed a meeting with the council, and Hashirama summons him by the morrow. Then there’s another letter, dove-white paper, handpainted bamboo on the corners. He knows what it is before he opens it.

A wedding invitation.

The date is set three weeks hence, and the ceremony will take place at the shrine in the Senju district. It is impersonal but for the scribbled note underneath the two signatures.

_Please do me the honour and sit on the right side of the altar,_ the note reads. The right side, reserved for family.

He puts the paper down and moves without sound through the darkling house.

 

Morning comes quickly but does nothing to cure his fatigue. Leaves fall from the trees and crunch beneath his feet. The branches become more barren every day. He meets Hashirama in the hokage’s office. Secretaries part and attendants move out of the way as Madara approaches. They glance at him warily. Hashirama looks up from the scroll he’s hunched over as Madara enters. Madara closes the door.

“You wanted to see me,” he says.

Hashirama stands and strides over. His brow creases as he looks at Madara.

“I did,” he says.

“What is it, then?”

“You missed a meeting.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not—” Hashirama stops himself. He raises a hand and grazes his knuckles over Madara’s cheek. Madara freezes. “You do not look well,” Hashirama mumbles.

Madara doesn’t answer.

“Let’s go to the bathing houses after work. It will do you good.”

Madara swallows and doesn’t say no. Hashirama smiles.

Thereon, Madara stays with Hashirama. They work through their daily increasing papers, discuss funding for police and education, of course unofficial until the council and the respective administrators weigh in. They eat lunch somewhere in between while chattering with full mouths. Madara cannot but laugh when one piece of gyōza snaps in half between Hashirama’s chop sticks and splats into the sauce, sprinkling the documents between them.

Evening approaches slowly, and by the time Hashirama puts the papers down, the kanji have begun to blur before Madara’s eyes. They pack up and make their way outside. The bathing houses are ten minutes by foot, and they walk there in silence, exhaustion weighing down their shoulders. The evening is grey and cold. Hashirama pays for them both as they arrive, takes the provided towels and then steers Madara to the changing chambers.

“Come on, let’s get into the water,” Hashirama says, already stripping out of his hakama.

“Go on ahead,” Madara says, voice a tad higher than usual. Hashirama doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re still a prude,” he grins.

“Go wash and let me undress in peace.” Heat rises to his cheeks. Hashirama slips off his undergarments, leaving them crumpled on the small bench of their chamber. Madara swallows and tries not to stare. Hashirama’s skin glints in hues of gold, scarless, taut muscles underneath. Madara knows the strength of those muscles, has been thrown down by Hashirama so often in battle, has had him above and on top of himself—

Hashirama grins at him the same way he’s always grinned at Madara, and Madara uses his own kimono jacket to swat Hashirama over the head with it.

“Go, you oaf!”

“Yes, my lady,” Hashirama purrs. Madara slips the zōri from his feet and throws them, but Hashirama slides the door shut behind him just in time. Madara breathes in and out slowly. His fingers feel jittery when he undresses and pulls his hair into a bun. He makes sure to take his time so that he is alone as he enters the showers. He sits down on one of the stools and rinses, then parts the red curtain that marks the men’s baths. Hashirama glances up at him and Madara hurries into the water.

Heat engulfs him in an instant, and he moans quietly. They are alone in the bath. Madara closes his eyes and leans back, cannot remember when he felt this warm, this clean. A chuckle brings him back and he opens his eyes. They look at each other and something softens in Hashirama’s gaze. He moves closer. Madara inhales sharply and lets Hashirama turn him around slowly. Heat whitens his thoughts. Roughened fingertips brush over his skin, his _scars_. Hashirama leans in. Warm breath against his neck.

“These are mine…” Hashirama whispers.

Madara closes his eyes.

“Yes.”

Hashirama presses his forehead against Madara, does not let go. Then carefully Hashirama undoes the knot that keeps Madara’s hair up, lets it fall around his shoulders.

“I could heal them,” Hashirama offers quietly, fingertips stroking over a faint line along Madara’s collarbone.

“No,” Madara says. “No.”

He turns around and and it aches to behold Hashirama. Hashirama is golden even in the dimness after dawn, ever earthbound and radiant.

He loves him.

They stay in the water until the moon rises in the East. They do not speak.

 

A clock strikes midnight somewhere. They leave the bathing house and walk together.

“I was wondering,” Hashirama begins.

Madara doesn’t veer his gaze from the street.

“Yes?”

“Would you accept my old armor as a gift?”

Now, Madara looks at him.

“Your old armor?”

“Yes. Mito has gifted me a new one, but I would like you to have my old one.”

Madara’s step falters only for a moment before he says, “No.”

Hashirama stops. “No?” Hashirama’s brow creases. “Why not?”

“I have no need of charity,” he says. Mito before his eyes. Her haughty gaze, her fiery hair, the way she commands as if it were her birthright, nothing humble about her, nothing _weak_. She takes and takes and _takes_ —

“Madara,” Hashirama says. He grips Madara’s shoulder and draws him in. Madara stumbles forward. “There is no shame in accepting a gift,” Hashirama continues. He smiles and adds, “from an old friend.”

They’re close. Hashirama’s hand lies on his shoulder, warm. Madara might indeed have use of the armour. The Uchiha clan has little wealth, and now that they have made peace with the Senju there are few who call upon them and pay in coin. They cannot afford armour, and they could not in the past. If they had been able to, perhaps life would have been different. Would perhaps have lasted longer.

“Alright,” he grumbles.

“Great!” Hashirama laughs, too loud for this time of night, and claps Madara on the back.

“I’ll have to have it fitted,” Madara mutters. That makes Hashirama laugh again. Another clap follows.

“You will,” he says, “because you’re as slender as a woman!”

They both know that’s not true, that Madara has muscle as well as strength, but he does not stand in comparison to Hashirama’s bulk.

“Oh shut up!” Madara barks and Hashirama giggles, rather unmanly, and slides an arm around Madara’s shoulders. Heat rises to his cheeks. Hashirama tilts his head up to the midnight sky. The stars are clear and manifold.

“I’m glad,” Hashirama says and glances at Madara from the side. “To be here with you.”

Madara punches Hashirama’s arm.

“Don’t get all weepy eyed,” he grunts and leans into Hashirama’s embrace, heart pounding.

 

Piping of flutes, eerie on the mid-noon breeze. Raindrops adorn the last leaves. A fog-veiled sun ascends its zenith.

Mito strides in white. Hashirama beside her. The shrine maiden leads them and the guests follow. Rustling of clothes, skid of shoes on stone, and silence but for the flutes.

Madara walks in a daze. In front of him is Tobirama, but Madara sees only Mito and Hashirama. They arrive at the shrine and Tobirama moves on to the right side of the altar, where the groom’s family resides. Madara thinks of the invitation, of Hashirama’s scrawl asking him to sit there as well. So he does and folds his hands on his knees to stop them from shaking. The day is dim, and the fog that shrouds the sun casts all in hues of pale yellow. A priest emerges from the shrine and reads a prayer. The lull of his voice makes no sense to Madara. He stares at Hashirama. His face is solemn, yet his eyes burn with a joy Madara cannot comprehend and will never know. The prayer ends. All stand, and Madara rises to his feet as the last of them. He sees Tobirama turn from the corner of his eye, feels his galled glare, but it means nothing, nothing at all. Hashirama holds a cup of sake and then takes Mito’s, and she takes his. They sip, two cups, not three as is tradition, but neither of their parents is still alive to hold the third cup. Madara met Butsuma Senju only once, on the river. That then-frightening visage of him, sun-tanned skin rimous with scars. The look of him, and his large hand that Madara knew had struck Hashirama more often than his brothers. But he is dead now.

Music sparks, shrine maidens dance, and Madara can only stare. Hashirama and Mito approach the altar. The earth beneath them reverberates with what potency follows their step. All nature ready at Hashirama’s behest, and the beast inside Mito’s belly. Madara bites his lip. Hashirama’s voice carries as he speaks his promises, _I will honour you always,_ and _my place is by your side._ Mito stands tall beside him, flaming hair, hard mouth, gaze unwavering as she accepts. She adds her own name to the vow, she takes Hashirama’s hand and brands him with it, _Uzumaki_.

Madara’s sight blackens, and for a moment, he prays for darkness. It does not come. Mito and Hashirama take sasaki branches from the priest, cotton stripes tied to them, and offer them to the gods. They bow and clap, as is proper, and then turn back to the guests. They hand around the sake cups, each to the family of the other. Mito offers it to Tobirama, and Tobirama’s gaze lingers on her before he passes the cup to Madara. Madara’s fingers shake as he clasps the ceramic. He drinks and barely tastes it. When all have sipped from the cups, they turn and bow along with the priest. Voices erupt, congratulations follow. Hashirama laughs, Mito’s hand on his, a smile curving Mito’s lips, untender. Then they mingle. Madara does not move, cannot do what is expected of him.

Mito’s coal-lined eyes. Her gaze catches his. She comes toward him and offers her hand to take his felicitations. He stares at her open palm. Then he looks at her and he chokes on his words as he spits his blessings. Her fingers clasp his own, and she sees right through him, and she knows him and his stuttering heart. She does not blink nor does she smile. Madara realises that it matters little to her. Her gaze is calm, her spine straight. Her position is unquestionable, and she knows it. Her grip tightens, almost kindly. Madara wrenches free. He whirls around.

Echo of his steps as he flees into the shrine. A voice calls out behind him. He does not turn. He can’t breathe. He clutches at his chest, crumples the cloth of his robe in his fist. He staggers and has to lean against the wall as not to fall. He’s receded far into the shrine, most noises shut out. Cold sweat on his brow. His heart hammers. The image of Mito’s face burns behind his eyelids. And he chokes on it, this tar-black feeling. He bites his lip until the taste of copper floods his mouth. How she’d looked at Hashirama, as if he was hers, and hers alone, to have him how she pleases, as if she _knew_ him like he does, as if she—

Footfall. Madara’s head snaps up.

“You,” Madara snarls.

Tobirama.

There’s rage in Tobirama’s red eyes. He’s before him in a blink, his hand shoots out, but Madara slams it away and does not hold back this time. Tobirama tumbles and barely catches himself. He looks up and Madara flashes the Mangekyō. Shock widens Tobirama’s eyes. Tobirama stills completely.

“On your knees,” Madara intones.

Tobirama swallows. Then obeys.

Madara seizes his hair and pulls him closer while Tobirama fumbles with Madara’s robe. Tobirama’s hot mouth is on him a moment later, wet, sliding. Madara hardens and thrusts down Tobirama’s clenching throat. Tobirama braces himself against Madara’s hip, but does not hinder him from shoving deeper. He hauls Tobirama back, slips out and backhands Tobirama  across the face. Imprint of his knuckles on his cheek. Madara jerks him closer and chokes him once more on his cock. Tobirama’s mouth opens and he moans around him. Spit coats his chin, his eyes are glazed, broad shoulders bent. One of his hands leaves Madara’s hips to grope himself through his trousers. Madara thrusts into him faster, _harder_ , has him cough and gag, and then he comes. Tobirama swallows. He’s on his feet the next second, crowding Madara against the wall. Harsh breath by his ear. Tobirama grips Madara’s wrist and pushes it into his trousers. His cock is rock-hard, straining and slick at its tip. Madara glides his fingers up and down the shaft and Tobirama growls into his ear, hips ramming forward. It takes only a few slides before Tobirama climaxes. His come coats Madara’s hand. Madara pulls out and wipes his hand on the shrine wall.

He goes back after that, and washes his fingers at the fountain. Then he congratulates Hashirama, voice thick, and does not dare to touch him as he speaks.

The wedding party moves to the house Mito and Hashirama will now share. Madara goes to sit in the farthest corner by the door, while all about him there is talk and laughter, sake being served by the bottles. He is the only Uchiha present, and some of the other guests glance at him, disdainful, muttering to each other. When he turns to stare back, they avert their gazes, sudden fright spiking their chakra. He hears them say, _don’t look at his eyes_ and _he took them from his brother_. The Uzumaki regard him warily, they extend what politeness is proper, but no more. Madara stares at Hashirama, one arm slung over Tobirama’s shoulder, sake cup overspilling. He is barking his laughter as Tobirama scolds him in a low voice. By the open door of the veranda stands Mito, surrounded by others of her clan, red hair turned golden under the lampions.

There’s a stillness inside Madara that he cannot speak.

Suddenly, a grip on his shoulder.

“What, so glum on my happy day!” Hashirama bellows. “You clearly didn’t have enough sake.” He sits down next to Madara and shoves a bottle at him. Madara takes it, but does not drink.

“I think not,” he says.

“Come on!”

“I should get going.”

“It’s early in the evening. You are my best friend, you cannot desert me now.” Hashirama looks at him with eyes that almost hide the mischief that Madara knows glimmers inside him. Madara should go, but Hashirama pouts at him and his fingers curl around Madara’s wrist, warm and reassuring, and his scent is earthy and so _familiar_.

“But not much longer,” he croaks.

Hashirama grins. “Drink then,” he says.

Madara does. The sake burns down his throat, not unpleasant. The taste alone is that of evenings spent with Hashirama in some tavern or another, for he does not drink without him. He drinks more than perhaps he should. His blood heats, colours start to swim and lights blur into streaks of yellow as he moves, as Hashirama moves him, and then they’re talking and giggling and all the while Hashirama’s arm lies around his shoulder. Madara’s breath stutters in his lungs and he clutches Hashirama’s sleeve lest he stumbles and falls. He feels like he might break if he does, unbar what his ribs hide, all his red tenderness.

They drink more, and Hashirama disappears for a few moments, talking to other guests, to Mito, whom he kisses on the cheek. Madara’s face feels hot. He touches it with his fingertips, then gets himself a glass of water. He gulps it down and notices Tobirama staring from the other end of the room while talking to one of the Uzumaki. Madara pays him no heed, waits only until Hashirama gets back to him.

“I feel sick,” he whispers.

Hashirama cackles but leans down to look at Madara’s face. “Alright,” he says and steers Madara towards the bathroom. The world tilts, and Madara can feel bile rise up his throat. He presses a hand over his mouth. Hashirama slides the door open for him. The next second Madara is on his knees, emptying his stomach over the toilet bowl. He retches, and dimly realises Hashirama is holding his hair. His knuckles whiten as he clutches the ceramic and gags. Hashirama’s laughter echoes in the room.

“Get it all out,” he says.

Madara spits. “I think I did,” he mutters, cheeks heating in shame. He feels better, but his head is still spinning. Hashirama lets go of his hair and Madara moves to the washbasin to rinse out his mouth.

Afterwards, Hashirama claps him on the back so hard he stumbles forward two steps.

“You oaf, be considerate!” Madara snaps.

“It’s not my fault you are such a lightweight.”

“It’s not my fault you are such a tippler _and_ a compulsive gambler on top of that!”

Hashirama reaches for him, but Madara slaps his hand and then they are laughing, hysteric, and Hashirama’s dumb face makes Madara laugh even harder. They both hold their bellies and grin as they slowly are able to breath normally again.

“You’re so stupid,” Madara says, softly.

Hashirama beams at him, smirking, eyes crinkling. Then Hashirama leans over and presses his lips to Madara’s. It’s just that, a hot and dry press of lips. Hashirama moves back, still smiling and gets up again. He staggers away and leaves the door open for Madara to follow. Madara does not follow. He sits frozen in place, pulse so high, and entirely sober. He can’t think, doesn’t think. And when he finally moves, it is with shaking fingers and a shiver running down his spine.

He joins the party once more, if only to tell Hashirama that he is leaving. He finds him, an arm around Mito’s waist and barking at Tobirama. Madara says his goodbyes and Hashirama returns them, slurring, then turns back to his wife.

 

Utter stillness in the dark. Madara moves, but it does not feel like his body. His heart quiets, and as he walks, he can feel his eyes burn. The moon rises red above the empty streets. Within his throat, a howl he does not let out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...what do you guys think of the wedding and the kiss? The fans of this ship seem pretty few, but also very sweet, so I love every comment or little remark. ♡  
> also, hit me up on [tumblr](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/naruto) if ya like. I do some hashimada art as well ( [here](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/hashimada)).  
> The headcanon that Madara's armor is Hashirama's old one is from [theadventuresof](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof) /[byelawliet](/%20https://byelawliet.tumblr.com/post/165207878611/as-usual-im-here-to-talk-about-madara-more) who kindly let me use it.


End file.
